Masters of the English Novel by Richard Burton

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The principle of inclusion in this book is the traditional onewhich assumes that criticism is only safe when it deals withauthors who are dead. In proportion as we approach the livingor, worse, speak of those still on earth, the proper perspectiveis lost and the dangers of contemporary judgment incurred. Thelight-minded might add, that the dead cannot strike back; topass judgment upon them is not only more critical but safer.

Sometimes, however, the distinction between the living and thedead is an invidious one. Three authors hereinafter studied areexamples: Meredith, Hardy and Stevenson. Hardy alone is now inthe land of the living, Meredith having but just passed away.Yet to omit the former, while including the other two, isobviously arbitrary, since his work in fiction is as truly doneas if he, like them, rested from his literary labors and thegravestone chronicled his day of death. For reasons best knownto himself, Mr. Hardy seems to have chosen verse for the finalexpression of his personality. It is more than a decade since hepublished a novel. So far as age goes, he is the senior ofStevenson: "Desperate Remedies" appeared when the latter was astripling at the University of Edinburgh. Hardy is thereforeincluded in the survey. I am fully aware that to strive tomeasure the accomplishment of those practically contemporary,whether it be Meredith and Hardy or James and Howells, is butmore or less intelligent guess-work. Nevertheless, it ispleasant employ, the more interesting, perhaps, to the criticand his readers because an element of uncertainty creeps intowhat is said. If the critic runs the risk of Je suis, J'y reste,he gets his reward in the thrill of prophecy; and should he turnout a false prophet, he is consoled by the reflection that itwill place him in a large and enjoyable company.

Throughout the discussion it has been the intention to keepsteadily before the reader the two main ways of looking at lifein fiction, which have led to the so-called realistic andromantic movements. No fear of repetition in the study of therespective novelists has kept me from illustrating from manypoints of view and taking advantage of the opportunity offeredby each author, the distinction thus set up. For back of allstale jugglery of terms, lies a very real and permanentdifference. The words denote different types of mind as well asof art: and express also a changed interpretation of the worldof men, resulting from the social and intellectual revolutionsince 1750.

No apology would appear to be necessary for Chapter Seven, whichdevotes sufficient space to the French influence to show how itaffected the realistic tendency of all modern novel-making.The Scandinavian lands, Germany, Italy, England and Spain,all have felt the leadership of France in this regard and henceany attempt to sketch the history of the Novel on English soil,would ignore causes, that did not acknowledge the Gallic debt.

It may also be remarked that the method employed in thefollowing pages necessarily excludes many figures of no slightimportance in the evolution of English fiction. There are booksa-plenty dealing with these secondary personalities, oftensignificant as links in the chain and worthy of study were thepurpose to present the complete history of the Novel. Bycentering upon indubitable masters, the principles illustratedboth by the lesser and larger writers will, it is hoped, bebrought home with equal if not greater force.

All the world loves a story as it does a lover. It is smallwonder then that stories have been told since man walked erectand long before transmitted records. Fiction, a convenientlybroad term to cover all manner of story-telling, is a hoarything and within historical limits we can but get a glimpse ofits activity. Because it is so diverse a thing, it may beregarded in various ways: as a literary form, a socialmanifestation, a comment upon life. Main emphasis in this bookis placed upon its recent development on English soil under themore restrictive name of Novel; and it is the intention, intracing the work of representative novel writers, to show howthe Novel has become in some sort a special modern mode ofexpression and of opinion, truly reflective of the Zeitgeist.

The social and human element in a literary phenomenon is whatgives general interest and includes it as part of theculturgeschichte of a people. This interest is as far removedfrom that of the literary specialist taken up with questions ofmorphology and method, as it is from the unthinking rapture ofthe boarding-school Miss who finds a current book "perfectlylovely," and skips intrepidly to the last page to see how it iscoming out. Thoughtful people are coming to feel that fiction isonly frivolous when the reader brings a frivolous mind or makesa frivolous choice. While it will always be legitimate to turnto fiction for innocent amusement, since the peculiar propertyof all art is to give pleasure, the day has been reached when itis recognized as part of our culture to read good fiction, torealize the value and importance of the Novel in moderneducation; and conversely, to reprimand the older, narrow notionthat the habit means self-indulgence and a waste of time. Norcan we close our eyes to the tyrannous domination of fictionto-day, for good or bad. It has worn seven-league boots of progressthe past generation. So early as 1862, Sainte-Beuve declared inconversation: "Everything is being gradually merged into thenovel. There is such a vast scope and the form lends itself toeverything." Prophetic words, more than fulfilled since theywere spoken.

Of the three main ways of story-telling, by the epic poem, thedrama and prose fiction, the epic seems to be the oldest;poetry, indeed, being the natural form of expression amongprimitive peoples.

The comparative study of literature shows that so far as writtenrecords go, we may not surely ascribe precedence in time eitherto fiction or the drama. The testimony varies in differentnations. But if the name fiction be allowed for a Biblicalnarrative like the Book of Ruth, which in the sense ofimaginative and literary handling of historical material itcertainly is, the great antiquity of the form may be conceded.Long before the written or printed word, we may safely say,stories were recited in Oriental deserts, yarns were spun asships heaved over the seas, and sagas spoken beside hearth firesfar in the frozen north. Prose narratives, epic in theme or ofmore local import, were handed down from father to son,transmitted from family to family, through the exercise of afaculty of memory that now, in a day when labor-saving deviceshave almost atrophied its use, seems well nigh miraculous. Prosestory-telling, which allows of ample description, elbow room fordigression, indefinite extension and variation from the originalkernel of plot, lends itself admirably to the imaginative needsof humanity early or late.

With the English race, fiction began to take con-structuralshape and definiteness of purpose in Elizabethan days. Up to thesixteenth century the tales were either told in verse, in theepic form of Beowulf or in the shrunken epic of a thirteenthcentury ballad like "King Horn"; in the verse narratives ofChaucer or the poetic musings of Spenser. Or else they were aportion of that prose romance of chivalry which was vastlycultivated in the middle ages, especially in France and Spain,and of which we have a doughty exemplar in the Morte D'Arthur,which dates nearly a century before Shakspere's day. Looseconstruction and no attempt to deal with the close eye ofobservation, characterize these earlier romances, which were inthe main conglomerates of story using the double appeal of loveand war.

But at a time when the drama was paramount in popularity, whenthe young Shakspere was writing his early comedies, fiction,which was in the fulness of time to conquer the play form as apopular vehicle of story-telling, began to rear its head. Theloosely constructed, rambling prose romances of Lyly ofeuphuistic fame, the prose pastorals of Lodge from which modelShakspere made his forest drama, "As You Like It," thepicaresque, harum-scarum story of adventure, "Jack Wilton," theprototype of later books like "Gil Blas" and "Robinson Crusoe,"--thesewere the early attempts to give prose narration a closer knitting,a more organic form.

But all such tentative striving was only preparation; fiction inthe sense of more or less formless prose narration, was writtenfor about two centuries without the production of what may becalled the

Novel in the modern meaning of the word. The broader namefiction may properly be applied, since, as we shall see, allnovels are fiction, but all fiction is by no means Novels. Thewhole development of the Novel, indeed, is embraced withinlittle more than a century and a half; from the middle of theeighteenth century to the present time. The term Novel is moredefinite, more specific than the fiction out of which itevolved; therefore, we must ask ourselves wherein lies theessential difference. Light is thrown by the early use of theword in critical reference in English. In reading the followingfrom Steele's "Tender Husband," we are made to realize that thestark meaning of the term implies something new: socialinterest, a sense of social solidarity: "Our amours can'tfurnish out a Romance; they'll make a very pretty Novel."

This clearly marks a distinction: it gives a hint as to thedeparture made by Richardson in 1742, when he published"Pamela." It is not strictly the earliest discrimination betweenthe Novel and the older romance; for the dramatist Congreve atthe close of the seventeenth century shows his knowledge of thedistinction. And, indeed, there are hints of it in Elizabethancriticism of such early attempts as those of Lyly, Nast, Lodgeand others. Moreover, the student of criticism as it deals withthe Novel must also expect to meet with a later confusion ofnomenclature; the word being loosely applied to any type ofprose fiction in contrast with the short story or tale. Buthere, at an early date, the severance is plainly indicatedbetween the study of contemporary society and the elder romanceof heroism, supernaturalism, and improbability. It is adifference not so much of theme as of view-point, method andintention.

For underlying this attempt to come closer to humanity throughthe medium of a form of fiction, is to be detected an addedinterest in personality for its own sake. During the eighteenthcentury, commonly described as the Teacup Times, an age ofpowder and patches, of etiquette, epigram and surface polish,there developed a keener sense of the value of the individual,of the sanctity of the ego, a faint prelude to the note that wasto become so resonant in the nineteenth century, soundingthrough all the activities of man. Various manifestations in thecivilization of Queen Anne and the first Georges illustrate thenew tendency.

One such is the coffee house, prototype of the bewildering clublife of our own day. The eighteenth century coffee house, wherethe men of fashion and affairs foregathered to exchange socialnews over their glasses, was an organization naturally fosteringaltruism; at least, it tended to cultivate a feeling for socialrelations.

Again, the birth of the newspaper with the Spectator Papers inthe early years of the century, is another such sign of thetimes: the newspaper being one of the great social bonds ofhumanity, for good or bad, linking man to man, race to race inthe common, well-nigh instantaneous nexus of sympathy. Theinfluence of the press at the time of a San Francisco or Messinahorror is apparent to all; but its effect in furnishing thepsychology of a business panic is perhaps no less potent thoughnot so obvious. When Addison and Steele began their genialconversations thrice a week with their fellow citizens, theylittle dreamed of the power they set a-going in the world; forhere was the genesis of modern journalism. And whatever itsabuses and degradations, the fourth estate is certainly one ofthe very few widely operative educational forces to-day, and hasplayed an important part in spreading the idea of thebrotherhood of man.

That the essay and its branch form, the character sketch, bothfound in the Spectator Papers, were contributory to the Novel'sdevelopment, is sure. The essay set a new model for easy,colloquial speech: just the manner for fiction which was toreport the accent of contemporary society in its average ofutterance. And the sketch, seen in its delightful efflorescencein the Sir Roger De Coverly papers series by Addison, is fictionin a sense: differing therefrom in its slighter framework, andthe aim of the writer, which first of all is the delicatedelineation of personality, not plot and the study of the socialcomplex. There is the absence of plot which is the naturaloutcome of such lack of story interest. A wide survey of theEnglish essay from its inception with Bacon in the earlyseventeenth century will impress the inquirer with its fluidnature and natural outflow into full-fledged fiction. The essayhas a way, as Taine says, of turning "spontaneously to fictionand portraiture." And as it is difficult, in the light ofevolution, to put the finger on the line separating man from thelower order of animal life, so is it difficult sometimes to sayjust where the essay stops and the Novel begins. There isperhaps no hard-and-fast line.

Consider Dr. Holmes' "Autocrat of the Breakfast Table," forexample; is it essay or fiction? There is a definite thoughslender story interest and idea, yet since the framework ofstory is really for the purpose of hanging thereon the genialessayist's dissertations on life, we may decide that the book isprimarily essay, the most charmingly personal, egoistic ofliterary forms. The essay "slightly dramatized," Mr. Howellshappily characterizes it. This form then must be reckoned within the eighteenth century and borne in mind as contributory allalong in the subsequent development, as we try to get a clearidea of the qualities which demark and limit the Novel.

Again, the theater was an institution doing its share to knitsocial feeling; as indeed it had been in Elizabethan days:offering a place where many might be moved by the one thought,the one emotion, personal variations being merged in what is nowcalled mob psychology, a function for centuries also exercisedby the Church. Nor should the function of the playhouse as avisiting-place be overlooked.

So too the Novel came to express most inclusively among theliterary forms this more vivid realization of meum and tuum; theworth of me and my intricate and inevitable relations to you,both of us caught in the coils of that organism dubbed society,and willingly, with no Rousseau-like desire to escape and set upfor individualists. The Novel in its treatment of personalitybegan to teach that the stone thrown into the water makescircles to the uttermost bounds of the lake; that the littlerift within the lute makes the whole music mute; that we are allmembers of the one body. This germinal principle was at root aprofoundly true and noble one; it serves to distinguish modernfiction philosophically from all that is earlier, and it led thelate Sidney Lanier, in the well-known book on this subject, tobase the entire development upon the working out of the idea ofpersonality. The Novel seems to have been the special literaryinstrument in the eighteenth century for the propagation ofaltruism; here lies its deepest significance. It was a baptismwhich promised great things for the lusty young form.

We are now ready for a fair working definition of the modernNovel. It means a study of contemporary society with an impliedsympathetic interest, and, it may be added, with specialreference to love as a motor force, simply because love it iswhich binds together human beings in their social relations.

This aim sets off the Novel in contrast with past fiction whichexhibits a free admixture of myth and marvel, of creatureshuman, demi-human and supernatural, with all time or no time forthe enactment of its events. The modern story puts its note ofemphasis upon character that is contemporary and average; andthus makes a democratic appeal against that older appeal which,dealing with exceptional personages--kings, leaders, allegoricalabstractions--is naturally aristocratic.

There was something, it would appear, in the English geniuswhich favored a form of literature--or modification of anexisting form--allowing for a more truthful representation ofsociety, a criticism (in the Arnoldian sense) of the passingshow. The elder romance finds its romantic effect, as a rule, inthe unusual, the strange and abnormal aspects of life, not somuch seen of the eye as imagined of the mind or fancy. Hence,romance is historically contrasted with reality, with manyunfortunate results when we come to its modern applications. Theissue has been a Babel-like mixture of terms.

Or when the bizarre or supernatural was not the basis of appeal,it was found in the sickly and absurd treatment of the amatorypassion, quite as far removed from the every-day experience ofnormal human nature. It was this kind of literature, with theFrench La Calprenede as its high priest, which my LordChesterfield had in mind when he wrote to his son under date of1752, Old Style: "It is most astonishing that there ever couldhave been a people idle enough to write such endless heaps ofthe same stuff. It was, however, the occupation of thousands inthe last century; and is still the private though disavowedamusement of young girls and sentimental ladies." The chieftrait of these earlier fictions, besides their mawkishness, istheir almost incredible long-windedness; they have the longbreath, as the French say; and it may be confessed that thegreat, pioneer eighteenth century novels, foremost those ofRichardson, possess a leisureliness of movement which is aninheritance of the romantic past when men, both fiction writersand readers, seem to have Time; they look back to Lyly, andforward (since history repeats itself here), to Henry James. Thecondensed, breathless fiction of a Kipling is the more logicalevolution.

Certainly, the English were innovators in this field, exercisinga direct and potent influence upon foreign fiction, especiallythat of France and Germany; it is not too much to say, that thenovels of Richardson and Fielding, pioneers, founders of theEnglish Novel, offered Europe a type. If one reads the Frenchfictionists before Richardson--Madame de La Fayette, Le Sage,Prevost and Rousseau--one speedily discovers that they did notwrite novels in the modern sense; the last named took a cue fromRichardson, to be sure, in his handling of sentiment, butremained an essayist, nevertheless. And the greater Goethe alsofelt and acknowledged the Englishman's example. Testimonies fromthe story-makers of other lands are frequent to the effect uponthem of these English pioneers of fiction. It will be seen fromthis brief statement of the kind of fiction essayed by thefounders of the Novel, that their tendency was towards what hascome to be called "realism" in modern fiction literature. Oneuses this sadly overworked term with a certain sinking of theheart, yet it seems unavoidable. The very fact that the words"realism" and "romance" have become so hackneyed in criticalparlance, makes it sure that they indicate a genuinedistinction. As the Novel has developed, ramified and taken on ahundred guises of manifestation, and as criticism has striven tokeep pace with such a growth, it is not strange that a confusionof nomenclature should have arisen. But underneath whatevermisunderstandings, the original distinction is clear enough anduseful to make: the modern Novel in its beginning did introducea more truthful representation of human life than had obtainedin the romantic fiction deriving from the medieval stories. Theterm "realism" as first applied was suitably descriptive; it isonly with the subsequent evolution that so simple a word hastaken on subtler shades and esoteric implications.

It may be roundly asserted that from the first the English Novelhas stood for truth; that it has grown on the whole moretruthful with each generation, as our conception of truth inliterature has been widened and become a nobler one. Theobligation of literature to report life has been felt withincreasing sensitiveness. In the particulars of appearance,speech, setting and action the characters of English fiction to-dayproduce a semblance of life which adds tenfold to its power.To compare the dialogue of modern masters like Hardy, Stevenson,Kipling and Howells with the best of the earlier writers servesto bring the assertion home; the difference is immense; it isthe difference between the idiom of life and the false-literarytone of imitations of life which, with all their merits, arestill self-conscious and inapt And as the earlier idiom wasimperfect, so was the psychology; the study of motives inrelation to action has grown steadily broader, more penetrating;the rich complexity of human beings has been recognized more andmore, where of old the simple assumption that all mankind fallsinto the two great contrasted groups of the good and the bad,was quite sufficient. And, as a natural outcome of such an easy-goingphilosophy, the study of life was rudimentary and partial; youcould always tell how the villain would jump and werecomfortable in the assurance that the curtain should ring downupon "and so they were married and lived happily everafterwards."

In contrast, to-day human nature is depicted in the Novel as acurious compound of contradictory impulses and passions, andinstead of the clear-cut separation of the sheep and the goats,we look forth upon a vast, indiscriminate horde of humanitywhose color, broadly surveyed, seems a very neutralgray,--neither deep black nor shining white. The white-robed saintis banished along with the devil incarnate; those who respect theirart would relegate such crudities to Bowery melodrama. And whilewe may allow an excess of zeal in this matter, even a confusionof values, there can be no question that an added dignity hascome to the Novel in these latter days, because it has strivenwith so much seriousness of purpose to depict life in a moreinterpretative way. It has seized for a motto the Veritas nosliberavit of the ancient philosopher. The elementary psychologyof the past has been transferred to the stage drama, justifyingMr. Shaw's description of it as "the last sanctuary ofunreality." And even in the theater, the truth demanded infiction for more than a century, is fast finding a place, andplay-making, sensitive to the new desire, is changing in thisrespect before our eyes.

However, with the good has come evil too. In the modern seekingfor so-called truth, the nuda veritas has in some hands becomeshameless as well,--a fact amply illustrated in the followingtreatment of principles and personalities.

The Novel in the hands of these eighteenth century writers alsostruck a note of the democratic,--a note that has sounded everlouder until the present day, when fiction is by far the mostdemocratic of the literary forms (unless we now must include thedrama in such a designation). The democratic ideal has become atonce an instinct, a principle and a fashion. Richardson in his"Pamela" did a revolutionary thing in making a kitchen wench hisheroine; English fiction had previously assumed that for itspolite audience only the fortunes of Algernon and Angelina couldbe followed decorously and give fit pleasure. His innovation,symptomatic of the time, by no means pleased an aristocraticon-looker like Lady Mary Wortley Montagu, who wrote to a friend:"The confounding of all ranks and making a jest of order haslong been growing in England; and I perceive by the books yousent me, has made a very considerable progress. The heroes andheroines of the age are cobblers and kitchen wenches. Perhapsyou will say, I should not take my ideas of the manners of thetimes from such trifling authors; but it is more truly to befound among them, than from any historian; as they write merelyto get money, they always fall into the notions that are mostacceptable to the present taste. It has long been the endeavorof our English writers to represent people of quality as thevilest and silliest part of the nation, being (generally) verylow-born themselves"--a quotation deliciously commingled ofprejudice and worldly wisdom.

But Richardson, who began his career by writing amatory epistlesfor serving maids, realized (and showed his genius thereby),that if the hard fortunes and eventful triumph of the humblePamela could but be sympathetically portrayed, the interest onthe part of his aristocratic audience was certain to follow,--asthe sequel proved.

He knew that because Pamela was a human being she mighttherefore be made interesting; he adopted, albeit unconsciously,the Terentian motto that nothing human should be alien from theinterests of his readers. And as the Novel developed, thisinterest not only increased in intensity, but ever spread untilit depicted with truth and sympathy all sorts and conditions ofmen. The typical novelist to-day prefers to leave the beatenhighway and go into the by-ways for his characters; his interestis with the humble of the earth, the outcast and alien, theunder dog in the social struggle. It has become well-nigh afashion, a fad, to deal with these picturesque and onceunexploited elements of the human passion-play.

This interest does not stop even at man; influenced by modernconceptions of life, it overleaps the line of old supposed to beimpassable, and now includes the lower order of living things:animals have come into their own and a Kipling or a London givesus the psychology of brutekind as it has never been drawnbefore--from the view-point of the animal himself. Our littlebrothers of the air, the forest and the field are depicted insuch wise that the world returns to a feeling which swelled theheart of St. Francis centuries ago, as he looked upon the birdshe loved and thus addressed them:

"And he entered the field and began to preach to the birds whichwere on the ground; and suddenly those which were in the treescame to him and as many as there were they all stood quietlyuntil Saint Francis had done preaching; and even then they didnot depart until such time as he had given them his blessing;and St. Francis, moving among them, touched them with his cape,but not one moved."

It is because this modern form of fiction upon which we fix thename Novel to indicate its new features has seized the idea ofpersonality, has stood for truth and grown ever more democratic,that it has attained to the immense power which marks it at thepresent time. It is justified by historical facts; it has becomethat literary form most closely revealing the contours of life,most expressive of its average experience, most sympathetic toits heart-throb. The thought should prevent us from regarding itas merely the syllabub of the literary feast, a kind of after-dinnercondiment. It is not necessary to assume the totaldepravity of current taste, in order to account for the tyrannyof this latest-born child of fiction. In the study of individualwriters and developing schools and tendencies, it will be wellto keep in mind these underlying principles of growth:personality, truth and democracy; a conception sure to providethe story-maker with a new function, a new ideal. Thedistinguished French critic Brunetiere has said: "The novelistin reality is nothing more than a witness whose evidence shouldrival that of the historian in precision and trustworthiness. Welook to him to teach us literally to see. We read his novelsmerely with a view to finding out in them those aspects ofexistence which escape us, owing to the very hurry and stir oflife, an attitude we express by saying that for a novel to berecognized as such, it must offer an historical or documentaryvalue, a value precise and determined, particular and local, andas well, a general and lasting psychologic value orsignificance."

It may be added, that while in the middle eighteenth century thenovel-writing was tentative and hardly more than an avocation,at the end of the nineteenth, it had become a fine art and aprofession. It did not occur to Richardson, serious-minded manthat he was, that he was formulating a new art canon forfiction. Indeed, the English author takes himself less and lessseriously as we go back in time. It was bad form to be literarywhen Voltaire visited Congreve and found a fine gentleman wherehe sought a writer of genius: complaining therefore that finegentlemen came cheap in Paris; what he wished to see was thecreator of the great comedies. In the same fashion, we findHorace Walpole, who dabbled in letters all his days and made itreally his chief interest, systematically underrating theprofessional writers of his day, to laud a brilliant amateur wholike himself desired the plaudits of the game without obeyingits exact rules. He looked askance at the fiction-makersRichardson and Fielding, because they did not move in the politecircles frequented by himself.

The same key is struck by lively Fanny Burney in reporting ameeting with a languishing lady of fashion who had perpetrated apiece of fiction with the alarming title of "The Mausoleum ofJulia": "My sister intends, said Lady Say and Sele, to print herMausoleum, just for her own friends and acquaintances."

"Yes? said Lady Hawke, I have never printed yet."

And a little later, the same spirit is exhibited by Jane Austenwhen Madame de Sevigne sought her: Miss Austen suppressed thestory-maker, wishing to be taken first of all for what she was:a country gentlewoman of unexceptionable connections. EvenWalter Scott and Byron plainly exhibit this dislike to bereckoned as paid writers, men whose support came by the pen. Inshort, literary professionalism reflected on gentility. We havechanged all that with a vengeance and can hardly understand theearlier sentiment; but this change of attitude has carried withit inevitably the artistic advancement of modern fiction. For ifanything is certain it is that only professional skill can berelied upon to perfect an art form. The amateur may possessgift, even genius; but we must look to the professional fortechnique.

One other influence, hardly less effective in molding the Novelthan those already touched upon, is found in the increasingimportance of woman as a central) factor in society; indeed,holding the key to the social situation. The drama of our time,in so frequently making woman the protagonist of the piece,testifies, as does fiction, to this significant fact: woman, inthe social and economic readjustment that has come to her, orbetter, which she is still undergoing, has become so much moredominant in her social relations, that any form of literaturetruthfully mirroring the society of the modern world must regardher as of potent efficiency. And this is so quite apart from theconsideration that women make up to-day the novelist's largestaudience, and that, moreover, the woman writer of fiction is innumbers and popularity a rival of men.

It would scarcely be too much to see a unifying principle in theevolution of the modern Novel, in the fact that the firstexample in the literature was Pamela, the study of a woman,while in representative latter-day studies like "Tess of theD'Urbervilles," "The House of Mirth," "Trilby" and "The Testingof Diana Mallory" we again have studies of women; the purposealike in time past or present being to fix the attention upon ahuman being whose fate is sensitively, subtly operative for goodor ill upon a society at large. It is no accident then, thatwoman is so often the central figure of fiction: it means morethan that, love being the solar passion of the race, shenaturally is involved. Rather does it mean fiction's recognitionof her as the creature of the social biologist, exercising herancient function amidst all the changes and shifting ideas ofsuccessive generations. Whatever her superficial changes underthe urge of the time-spirit, Woman, to a thoughtful eye, sitslike the Sphinx above the drifting sands, silent, secret,powerful and obscure, bent only on her great purposive errandwhose end is the bringing forth of that Overman who shall rulethe world. With her immense biologic mission, seemingly at warwith her individual career, and destructive apparently of thatemancipation which is the present dream of her champions, what atype, what a motive this for fiction, and in what a manifold andstimulating way is the Novel awakening to its high privilege todeal with such material. In this view, having these widerimplications in mind, the role of woman in fiction, so far fromwaning, is but just begun.

This survey of historical facts and marshaling of a fewimportant principles has prepared us, it may be hoped, for aclearer comprehension of the developmental details that follow.It is a complex growth, but one vastly interesting and, afterall, explained by a few, great substructural principles: thebelief in personality, democratic feeling, a love for truth inart, and a realization of the power of modern Woman. The Novel isthus an expression and epitome of the society which gave itbirth.

CHAPTER II

EIGHTEENTH CENTURY BEGINNINGS: RICHARDSON

There is some significance in the fact that Samuel Richardson,founder of the modern novel, was so squarely a middle-classcitizen of London town. Since the form, he founded was, as wehave seen, democratic in its original motive and subsequentdevelopment, it was fitting that the first shaper of the formshould have sympathies not too exclusively aristocratic: shouldhave been willing to draw upon the backstairs history of theservants' hall for his first heroine.

To be sure, Mr. Richardson had the not uncommon failing of thehumble-born: he desired above all, and attempted too much, todepict the manners of the great; he had naive aristocraticalleanings which account for his uncertain tread when he wouldmove with ease among the boudoirs of Mayfair. Nevertheless, inthe honest heart of him, as his earliest novel forever proves,he felt for the woes of those social underlings who, as we havelong since learned, have their microcosm faithfully reflectingthe greater world they serve, and he did his best work in thatintimate portrayal of the feminine heart, which is not of aclass but typically human; he knew Clarissa Harlowe quite aswell as he did Pamela; both were of interest because they werewomen. That acute contemporary, Lady Mary Wortley Montagu,severely reprimands Richardson for his vulgar lapses in paintingpolite society and the high life he so imperfectly knew; yet inthe very breath that she condemns "Clarissa Harlowe" as "mostmiserable stuff," confesses that "she was such an old fool as toweep over" it "like any milkmaid of sixteen over the ballad ofthe Lady's Fall"--the handsomest kind of a compliment under thecircumstances. And with the same charming inconsistency, shedeclares on the appearance of "Sir Charles Grandison" that sheheartily despises Richardson, yet eagerly reads him--"nay, sobsover his works in the most scandalous manner."

Richardson was the son of a carpenter and himself a respectedprinter, who by cannily marrying the daughter of the man to whomhe was apprenticed, and by diligence in his vocation, rose toprosperity, so that by 1754 he became Master of The Stationers'Company and King's Printer, doing besides an excellent printingbusiness.

As a boy he had relieved the dumb anguish of serving maids bythe penning of their love letters; he seemed to have a knack atthis vicarious manner of love-making and when in the fullmaturity of fifty years, certain London publishers requested himto write for them a narrative which might stand as a modelletter writer from which country readers should know the righttone, his early practice stood him in good stead. Using theepistolary form into which he was to throw all his fiction, heproduced "Pamela," the first novel of analysis, in contrast withthe tale of adventure, of the English tongue. It is worthremarking that Richardson wrote this story at an age when manynovelists have well-nigh completed their work; even as Defoepublished his masterpiece, "Robinson Crusoe," at fifty-eight.But such forms as drama and fiction are the very ones where ripematurity, a long and varied experience with the world and atrained hand in the technique of the craft, go for their fullvalue. A study of the chronology of novel-making will show thatmore acknowledged masterpieces were written after forty thanbefore. Beside the eighteenth century examples one places GeorgeEliot, who wrote no fiction until she had nearly reached thealleged dead-line of mental activity: Browning with his greatestpoem, "The Ring and the Book," published in his forty-eighthyear; Du Maurier turning to fiction at sixty, and De Morganstill later. Fame came to Richardson then late in life, andnever man enjoyed it more. Ladies with literary leanings (andthe kind is independent of periods) used to drop into his placebeyond Temple Bar--for he was a bookseller as well as printer,and printed and sold his own wares--to finger his volumes andhave a chat about poor Pamela or the naughty Lovelace orimpeccable Grandison. For how, in sooth, could they keep away oravoid talking shop when they were bursting with the books justread?

And much, too, did Richardson enjoy the prosperity his stories,as well as other ventures, brought him, so that he might moveout Hammersmith way where William Mortis and Cobden Sandersonhave lived in our day, and have a fine house wherein to receivethose same lady callers, who came in increasing flocks to hisimpromptu court where sat the prim, cherub-faced, elderly littleprinter. It is all very quaint, like a Watteau painting or a bitof Dresden china, as we look back upon it through the time-mistsof a century and a half.

In spite of its slow movement, the monotony of the letter formand the terribly utilitarian nature of its morals, "Pamela" hasthe essentials of interesting fiction; its heroine is placed ina plausible situation, she is herself life-like and herstruggles are narrated with a sympathetic insight into the humanheart--or better, the female heart. The gist of a plot so simplecan be stated in few words: Mr. B., the son of a lady who hasbenefited Pamela Andrews, a serving maid, tries to conquer hervirtue while she resists all his attempts--including anabduction, Richardson's favorite device--and as a reward of herchastity, he condescends to marry her, to her very greatgratitude and delight. The English Novel started out with aflourish of trumpets as to its moral purpose; latter-daycriticism may take sides for or against the novel-with-a-purpose,but that Richardson justified his fiction writing uponmoral grounds and upon those alone is shown in the descriptivetitle-page of the tale, too prolix to be often recalled and agood sample in its long-windedness of the past compared with theterse brevity of the present in this matter: "Published in orderto cultivate the principles of virtue and religion in the mindof youth of both sexes"; the author of "Sanford and Merton" hashere his literary progenitor. The sub-title, "or VirtueRewarded," also indicates the homiletic nature of the book. Andsince the one valid criticism against all didactic aims instory-telling is that it is dull, Richardson, it will beappreciated, ran a mighty risk. But this he was able to escapebecause of the genuine human interest of his tales and the skillhe displayed with psychologic analysis rather than the march ofevents. The close-knit, organic development of the best of ourmodern fiction is lacking; leisurely and lax seems the movement.Modern editions of "Pamela" and "Clarissa Harlowe" are in theway of vigorous cutting for purposes of condensation. Scottseems swift and brief when set beside Richardson Yet the slowconvolutions and involutions serve to acquaint us intimatelywith the characters; dwelling with them longer, we come to knowthem better.

It is a fault in the construction of the story that instead ofmaking Pamela's successful marriage the natural climax and closeof the work, the author effects it long before the novel isfinished and then tries to hold the interest by telling of thehoneymoon trip in Italy, her cool reception by her husband'sfamily, involving various subterfuges and difficulties, and thegradual moral reform she was able to bring about in her spouse.It must be conceded to him that some capital scenes are theresult of this post-hymeneal treatment; that, to illustrate,where the haughty sister of Pamela's husband calls on the womanshe believes to be her husband's mistress. Yet there is aneffect of anti-climax; the main excitement--getting Pamelahonestly wedded--is over. But we must not forget the moralpurpose: Mr. B.'s spiritual regeneration has to be portrayedbefore our very eyes, he must be changed from a rake into amodel husband; and with Richardson, that means plenty of elbow-room.There is, too, something prophetic in this giving of amplespace to post-marital life; it paves the way for much latter-dayprobing of the marriage misery.

The picture of Mr. B. and Pamela's attitude towards him is fullof irony for the modern reader; here is a man who does all inhis power to ruin her and, finding her adamant, at last decidesto do the next best thing--secure her by marriage. And insteadof valuing him accordingly, Pamela, with a kind of spaniel-likefawning, accepts his august hand. It must be confessed that withPamela (that is, with Richardson), virtue is a market commodityfor sale to the highest bidder, and this scene of barter andsale is an all-unconscious revelation of the low standard of sexethics which obtained at the time. The suggestion by SidneyLanier that the sub-title should be: "or Vice Rewarded," "sincethe rascal Mr. B. it is who gets the prize rather than Pamela,"has its pertinency from our later and more enlightened view. Butsuch was the eighteenth century. The exposure of an earlier timeis one of the benefits of literature, always a sort of ethicalbarometer of an age--all the more trustworthy in reportingspiritual ideals because it has no intention of doing so.

That Richardson succeeds in making Mr. B. tolerable, not to saylikable, is a proof of his power; that the reader really growsfond of his heroine--especially perhaps in her daughterlydevotion to her humble family--speaks volumes for his grasp ofhuman nature and helps us to understand the effect of the storyupon contemporaneous readers. That effect was indeed remarkable.Lady Mary, to quote her again, testifies that the book "met withvery extraordinary (and I think undeserved) success. It has beentranslated into French and Italian; it was all the fashion atParis and Versailles and is still the joy of the chambermaids ofall nations." Again she writes, "it has been translated intomore languages than any modern performances I ever heard of." AFrench dramatic version of it under the same title appearedthree years after the publication of the novel and a littlelater Voltaire in his "Nanine" used the same motif. Lady Mary'sreference to chambermaids is significant; it points to the newsympathy on the part of the novelist and the consequent newaudience which the modern Novel was to command; literally, allclasses and conditions of mankind were to become its patrons;and as one result, the author, gaining his hundreds of thousandsof readers, was to free himself forever of the aristocraticPatron, at whose door once on a time, he very humbly andhungrily knelt for favor. To-day, the Patron is hydra-headed;demos rules in literature as in life.

The sentimentality of this pioneer novel which now seemsold-fashioned and even absurd, expressed Queen Anne's day."Sensibility," as it was called, was a favorite idea in letters,much affected, and later a kind of cult. A generation afterPamela, in Mackenzie's "Man of Feeling," weeping is unrestrainedin English fiction; the hero of that lachrymose tale incurredall the dangers of influenza because of his inveterate tendencytoward damp emotional effects; he was perpetually dissolving in"showers of tears." In fact, our novelists down to the memory ofliving man gave way to their feelings with far more abandon thanis true of the present repressive period. One who reads Dickens'"Nicholas Nickleby" with this in mind, will perhaps be surprisedto find how often the hero frankly indulges his grief; he crieswith a freedom that suggests a trait inherited from his motherof moist memory. No doubt, there was abuse of this "sensibility"in earlier fiction: but Richardson was comparatively innocuousin his practice, and Coleridge, having the whole sentimentaltendency in view, seems rather too severe when he declared that"all the evil achieved by Hobbes and the whole school ofmaterialists will appear inconsiderable if it be compared withthe mischief effected and occasioned by the sentimentalphilosophy of Sterne and his numerous imitators." The sametendency had its vogue on both the English and French stage--theComedie larmoyante of the latter being vastly affected in Londonand receiving in the next generation the good-natured satiricshafts of Goldsmith. It may be possible that at the presenttime, when the stoicism of the Red Indian in inhibitingexpression seems to be an Anglo-Saxon ideal, we have reacted toofar from the gush and the fervor of our forefathers. In anycase, to Richardson belongs whatever of merit there may be infirst sounding the new sentimental note.

Pope declared that "Pamela," was as good as twenty sermons--aninnocently malignant remark, to be sure, which cuts both ways!And plump, placid Mr. Richardson established warm epistolaryrelations with many excellent if too emotional ladies, whoopened a correspondence with him concerning the conductment ofthis and the following novels and strove to deflect the coursethereof to soothe their lacerated feelings. What novelist to-daywould not appreciate an audience that would take him _au grandserieux_ in this fashion! What higher compliment than for yourcorrespondent--and a lady at that--to state that in the way ofministering to her personal comfort, Pamela must marry andClarissa must not die! Richardson carried on a voluminousletter-writing in life even as in literature, and the curleddarlings of latter-day letters may well look to their laurels inrecalling him, A certain Mme. Belfair, for example, desires tolook upon the author of those wonderful tales, yet modestlyshrinks from being seen herself. She therefore implores that hewill walk at an hour named in St. James Park--and this is thenovelist's reply:

I go through the Park once or twice a week to my little retirement; but I will for a week together be in it, every day three or four hours, till you tell me you have seen a person who answers to this description, namely, short--rather plump--fair wig, lightish cloth coat, all black besides; one hand generally in his bosom, the other a cane in it, which he leans upon under the skirts of his coat; ... looking directly fore-right as passers-by would imagine, but observing all that stirs on either hand of him; hardly ever turning back; of a light brown complexion, smoothish faced and ruddy cheeked, looking about sixty-five; a regular, even pace, a gray eye, sometimes lively--very lively if he have hope of seeing a lady whom he loves and honors!

Such innocent philandering is delicious; there is a flavor to itthat presages the "Personals" in a New York newspaper. "Was everlady in such humor wooed?" or shall we say it is the novelist,not the lady, who is besieged!

"Pamela" ran through five editions within a year of itsappearance, which was a conspicuous success in the days of anaudience so limited when compared with the vast reading publicof later times. The smug little bookseller must have beengreatly pleased by the good fortune attending his first ventureinto a new field, especially since he essayed it so late in lifeand almost by accident. His motive had been in a sensepractical; for his publishers had requested him to write a book"on the useful concerns of life"--and that he had done so, hemight have learned any Sunday in church, for divines did nothesitate to say a kind word from the pulpit about sounexceptionable a work.

One of the things Richardson had triumphantly demonstrated byhis first story was that a very slight texture of plot cansuffice for a long, not to say too long, piece of fiction, ifonly a free hand be given the story-teller in the way ofdepicting the intuitions and emotions of human beings; dealingwith their mind states rather than, or quite as much as, theiractions. This was the modern note, and very speedily was thelesson learned; the time was apt for it. From 1742, the date of"Pamela," to 1765 is but a quarter century; yet within thosenarrow time-limits the English Novel, through the labors ofRichardson and Fielding, Smollett, Sterne and Goldsmith, can besaid to have had its birth and growth to a lusty manhood and tohave defined once and for all the mold of this new and potentform of prose art. By 1773 a critic speaks of the "novel-writingage"; and a dozen years later, in 1785, novels are so commonthat we hear of the press "groaning beneath their weight,"--whichsounds like the twentieth century. And it was all startedby the little printer; to him the praise. He received it in fullmeasure; here and there, of course, a dissident voice was heard,one, that of Fielding, to be very vocal later; but mostly theywere drowned in the chorus of adulation. Richardson had done anew thing and reaped an immediate reward; and--as seldomhappens, with quick recognition--it was to be a permanent rewardas well, for he changed the history of English literature.

One would have expected him to produce another novel post-haste,following up his maiden victory before it could be forgotten,after the modern manner. But those were leisured days and it washalf a dozen years before "Clarissa Harlowe" was given to thepublic. Richardson had begun by taking a heroine out of lowlife; he now drew one from genteel middle class life; as he wasin "Sir Charles Grandison," the third and last of his fictions,to depict a hero in the upper class life of England. In Clarissaagain, plot was secondary, analysis, sentiment, the exhibitionof the female heart under stress of sorrow, this was everything.Clarissa's hand is sought by an unattractive suitor; she rebels--asocial crime in the eighteenth century; whereat, her wholefamily turn against her--father, mother, sister, brothers,uncles and aunts--and, wooed by Lovelace, a dashing rake who isin love with her according to his lights, but by no meansintends honorable matrimony, she flies with him in a chariot andfour, to find herself in a most anomalous position, and so diesbroken-hearted; to be followed in her fate by Lovelace, who isrepresented as a man whose loose principles are in conflict witha nature which is far from being utterly bad. The narrative ismainly developed through letters exchanged between Clarissa andher friend, Miss Howe. There can hardly be a more strikingtestimony to the leisure enjoyed by the eighteenth-century thanthat society was not bored by a story the length of which seemsalmost interminable to the reader to-day. The slow movement issufficient to preclude its present prosperity. It is safe to saythat Richardson is but little read now; read much less than hisgreat contemporary, Fielding. And apparently it is his bulkrather than his want of human interest or his antiquated mannerthat explains the fact. The instinct to-day is against fictionthat is slow and tortuous in its onward course; at least so itseemed until Mr. De Morgan returned in his delightful volumes tothe method of the past. Those are pertinent words of thedistinguished Spanish novelist, Valdes: "An author who wishes tobe read not only in his life, but after his death (and theauthor who does not wish this should lay aside his pen), cannotshut his eyes, when unblinded by vanity, to the fact that notonly is it necessary to be interesting to save himself fromoblivion, but the story must not be a very long one. The worldcontains so many great and beautiful works that it requires along life to read them all. To ask the public, always anxiousfor novelty, to read a production of inordinate length, when somany others are demanding attention, seems to me useless andridiculous, ... The most noteworthy instance of what I say isseen in the celebrated English novelist, Richardson, who, inspite of his admirable genius and exquisite sensibility andperspicuity, added to the fact of his being the father of themodern Novel, is scarcely read nowadays, at least in Latincountries. Given the indisputable beauties of his works, thiscan only be due to their extreme length. And the proof of this,that in France and Spain, to encourage the taste for them, themost interesting parts have been extracted and published ineditions and compendiums."

This is suggestive, coming from one who speaks by the book. Who,in truth, reads epics now--save in the enforced study of schooland college? Will not Browning's larger works--like "The Ringand the Book"--suffer disastrously with the passing of timebecause of a lack of continence, of a failure to realize thatsince life is short, art should not be too long? It may be, too,that Richardson, newly handling the sentiment which during thefollowing generation was to become such a marked trait ofimaginative letters, revelled in it to an extent unpalatable toour taste; "rubbing our noses," as Leslie Stephen puts it, "inall her (Clarissa's) agony,"--the tendency to overdo a newthing, not to be resisted in his case. But with all concessionsto length and sentimentality, criticism from that day to thishas been at one in agreeing that here is not only Richardson'sbest book but a truly great Novel. Certainly one who patientlysubmits to a ruminant reading of the story, will find that whenat last the long-deferred climax is reached and the awed andpenitent Lovelace describes the death-bed moments of the girl hehas ruined, the scene has a great moving power. Allowing fordifferences of taste and time, the vogue of the Novel inRichardson's day can easily be understood, and through all thestiffness, the stilted effect of manner and speech, and thestifling conventions of the entourage, a sweet and charmingyoung woman in very piteous distress emerges to live inaffectionate memory. After all, no poor ideal of womanhood ispictured in Clarissa. She is one of the heroines who areunforgettable, dear. Mr. Howells, with his stern insistence ontruth in characterization, declares that she is "as freshlymodern as any girl of yesterday or to-morrow. 'ClarissaHarlowe,' in spite of her eighteenth century costume andkeeping, remains a masterpiece in the portraiture of thatever-womanly which is of all times and places."

Lovelace, too, whose name has become a synonym for the finegentleman betrayer, is drawn in a way to make him sympatheticand creditable; he is far from being a stock figure of villainy.And the minor figures are often enjoyable; the friendship ofClarissa with Miss Howe, a young woman of excellent good senseand seemingly quite devoid of the ultra-sentiment of her time,preludes that between Diana and her "Tony" in Meredith's greatnovel. As a general picture of the society of the period, thebook is full of illuminations and sidelights; of course, thewhole action is set on a stage that bespeaks Richardson'snarrow, middle class morality, his worship of rank, his beliefthat worldly goods are the reward of well-doing.

As for the contemporaneous public, it wept and praised and wentwith fevered blood because of this fiction. We have heard howwomen of sentiment in London town welcomed the book and theopportunity it offered for unrestrained tears. But it was thesame abroad; as Ike Marvel has it, Rousseau and Diderot over inFrance, philosophers as they professed to be, "blubbered theiradmiring thanks for 'Clarissa Harlowe."' Similarly, at a laterday we find caustic critics like Jeffrey and Macaulay writing toDickens to tell how they had cried over the death of LittleNell--a scene the critical to-day are likely to stigmatize asone of the few examples of pathos overdone to be found in theworks of that master. It is scarcely too much to say that theoutcome of no novel in the English tongue was watched with suchbated breath as was that of "Clarissa Harlowe" while the eightsuccessive books were being issued.

Richardson chose to bask for another half dozen years in thefame of his second novel, before turning in 1754 to his finalattempt, "Sir Charles Grandison," wherein it was his purpose todepict the perfect pattern of a gentleman, "armed at all points"of social and moral behavior. We must bear in mind that when"Clarissa" was published he was sixty years of age and to bepardoned if he did not emulate so many novel-makers of thesebrisker mercantile times and turn off a story or so a year.

By common confession, this is the poorest of his three fictions.In the first place, we are asked to move more steadily in thearistocratic atmosphere where the novelist did not breathe tobest advantage. Again, Richardson was an adept in drawing womenrather than men and hence was self-doomed in electing amasculine protagonist. He is also off his proper ground inlaying part of the action in Italy.

His beau ideal, Grandison, turns out the most impossible prig inEnglish literature. He is as insufferable as that later prig,Meredith's Sir Willoughby in "The Egotist," with the differencethat the author does not know it, and that you do not believe inhim for a moment; whereas Meredith's creation is appallinglytrue, a sort of simulacrum of us all. The best of the story isin its portrayal of womankind; in particular, Sir Charles' twoloves, the English Harriet Byron and the Italian Clementina, thelast of whom is enamored of him, but separated by religiousdifferences. Both are alive and though suffering in the reader'sestimation because of their devotion to such a stick asGrandison, nevertheless touch our interest to the quick. Thescene in which Grandison returns to Italy to see Clementina,whose reason, it is feared, is threatened because of her griefover his loss, is genuinely effective and affecting.

The mellifluous sentimentality, too, of the novelist seems tocome to a climax in this book; justifying Taine's satiric remarkthat "these phrases should be accompanied by a mandolin." Themoral tag is infallibly supplied, as in all Richardson's tales--thoughperhaps here with an effect of crescendo. We are stilllong years from that conception of art which holds that abeautiful thing may be allowed to speak for itself and need notbe moraled down our throats like a physician's prescription. YetFielding had already, as we shall see, struck a wholesome noteof satiric fun. The plot is slight and centers in an abductionwhich, by the time it is used in the third novel, begins to pallas a device and to suggest paucity of invention. The novel hasthe prime merit of brevity; it is much shorter than "ClarissaHarlowe," but long enough, in all conscience, Harriet beingblessed with the gift of gab, like all Richardson's heroines."She follows the maxim of Clarissa," says Lady Mary with tellinghumor, "of declaring all she thinks to all the people she seeswithout reflecting that in this mortal state of imperfection,fig-leaves are as necessary for our minds as our bodies." It issignificant that this brilliant contemporary is very hard onRichardson's characterization of women in this volume (which shesays "sinks horribly"), whereas never a word has she to say incondemnation of the hero, who to the present critical eye seemsthe biggest blot on the performance. How can we join the chorusof praise led by Harriet, now her ladyship and his lovingspouse, when it chants: "But could he be otherwise than the bestof husbands who was the most dutiful of sons, who is the mostaffectionate of brothers, the most faithful of friends, who isgood upon principle in every relation in life?" Lady Mary isalso extremely severe on the novelist's attempt to paint Italy;when he talks of it, says she, "it is plain he is no betteracquainted with it than he is with the Kingdom of Mancomingo."It is probable tat Richardson could not say more for his Italianknowledge than did old Roger Ascham of Archery fame, when hedeclared: "I was once in Italy, but I thank God my stay therewas only nine days." "Sir Charles Grandison" has also thesubstantial advantage of ending well: that is, if to marry SirCharles can be so regarded, and certainly Harriet deemed itdesirable.

It is pleasant to think of Richardson, now well into thesixties, amiable, plump and prosperous, surrounded for theremainder of his days--he was to die seven years later at theripe age of seventy-five--by a bevy of admiring women, who,whether literary or merely human, gave this particular authorthat warm and convincing proof of popularity which, to most, isworth a good deal of chilly posthumous fame which a man is notthere to enjoy. Looking at his work retrospectively, one seesthat it must always have authority, even if it fall deadly dullupon our ears to-day; for nothing can take away from him thedistinction of originating that kind of fiction which, now wellalong towards its second century of existence, is still popularand powerful. Richardson had no model; he shaped a form forhimself. Fielding, a greater genius, threw his fiction into amold cast by earlier writers; moreover, he received his directimpulse away from the drama and towards the novel fromRichardson himself.

The author of "Pamela" demonstrated once and for all theinterest that lies in a sympathetic and truthful representationof character in contrast with that interest in incident for itsown sake which means the subordination of character, so that thepersons become mere subsidiary counters in the game. And heexhibited such a knowledge of the subtler phases of the nooksand crannies of woman's heart, as to be hailed as past-masterdown to the present day by a whole school of analysts andpsychologues; for may it not be said that it is the populardistinction of the nineteenth century fiction to place woman inthe pivotal position in that social complex which it is thebusiness of the Novel to represent? Do not our fiction and dramato-day--the drama a belated ally of the Novel in this and otherregards--find in the delineation of the eternal feminine undernew conditions of our time, its chief, its most significantmotif? If so, a special gratitude is due the placid little Mr.Richardson with his Pamelas, Clarissas and Harriets. He foundfiction unwritten so far as the chronicles of contemporarysociety were concerned, and left it in such shape that it wasrecognized as the natural quarry of all who would paint manners;a field to be worked by Jane Austen, Dickens and Thackeray,Trollope and George Eliot, and a modern army of latter andlesser students of life. His faults were in part merely areflection of his time; its low-pitched morality, its etiquettewhich often seems so absurd. Partly it was his own, too; for heutterly lacked humor (save where unconscious) and never graspedthe great truth, that in literary art the half is often morethan the whole; The Terentian ne quid nimis had evidently notbeen taken to heart by Samuel Richardson, Esquire, ofHammersmith, author of "Clarissa Harlowe" in eight volumes, andPrinter to the Queen. Again and again one of Clarissa's burstsof emotion under the tantalizing treatment of her seducer losesits effect because another burst succeeds before we (and she)have recovered from the first one. He strives to give us thebroken rhythm of life (therein showing his affinity with thelatter day realists) instead of that higher and harder thing--themore perfect rhythm of art; not so much the truth (whichcannot be literally given) as that seeming-true which is the aimand object of the artistic representation. Hence the necessityof what Brunetiere calls in an admirable phrase, the truefunction of the novel--"to be an abridged representation oflife." Construction in the modern sense Richardson had notstudied, naturally enough, and was innocent of the fineness ofmethod and the sure-handed touches of later technique. And thereis a kind of drawing-room atmosphere in his books, a lack ofozone which makes Fielding with all his open-air coarseness arelief. But judged in the setting of his time, this writer did awonderful thing not only as the Father of the Modern Novel butone of the few authors in the whole range of fiction who holdshis conspicuous place amid shifting literary modes and fashions,because he built upon the surest of all foundations--the socialinstinct, and the human heart.

If the use of the realistic method alone denoted the Novel,Defoe, not Richardson, might be called its begetter. "RobinsonCrusoe," more than twenty years before "Pamela," would occupythe primate position, to say nothing of Swift's "Gulliver'sTravels," antedating Richardson's first story by some fifteenyears. Certainly the observational method, the love of detail,the grave narrative of imagined fact (if the bull be permitted)are in this earlier book in full force. But "Robinson Crusoe" isnot a rival because it does not study man-in-society; never wasa story that depended less upon this kind of interest. Theposition of Crusoe on his desert isle is so eminently unsocialthat he welcomes the black man Friday and quivers at the humanquality in the famed footprints in the sand. As for Swift's chefd'oeuvre, it is a fairy-tale with a grimly realistic manner anda savage satiric intention. To speak of either of these fictionsas novels is an example of the prevalent careless nomenclature.Between them and "Pamela" there yawns a chasm. Moreover,"Crusoe" is a frankly picaresque tale belonging to the elderline of romantic fiction, where incident and action and all thethrilling haps of Adventure-land furnish the basis of appealrather than character analysis or a study of social relations.The personality of Crusoe is not advanced a whit by hiswonderful experiences; he is done entirely from the outside.

Richardson, therefore, marks the beginning of the modern form.But that the objection to Defoe as the true and only begetter ofthe Novel lies in his failure, in his greatest story, to centerthe interest in man as part of the social order and as humansoul, is shown by the fact that his less known, but remarkable,story "Moll Flanders," picaresque as it is and depicting thelife of a female criminal, has yet considerable character studyand gets no small part of its appeal for a present-day readerfrom the minute description of the fall and final reform of thedegenerate woman. It is comparatively crude in characterization,but psychological value is not entirely lacking. However, withRichardson it is almost all. It was of the nature of his geniusto make psychology paramount: just there is found his modernity.Defoe and Swift may be said to have added some slight interestin analysis pointing towards the psychologic method, which wasto find full expression in Samuel Richardson.

CHAPTER III

EIGHTEENTH CENTURY BEGINNINGS: FIELDING

It is interesting to ask if Henry Fielding, barrister,journalist, tinker of plays and man-about-town, would ever haveturned novelist, had it not been for Richardson, hispredecessor. So slight, so seemingly accidental, are theincidents which make or mar careers and change the course ofliterary history. Certain it is that the immediate cause ofFielding's first story was the effect upon him of the fortunesof the virtuous Pamela. A satirist and humorist where Richardsonwas a somewhat solemn sentimentalist, Fielding was quick to seethe weakness, and--more important,--the opportunity forcaricature, in such a tale, whose folk harangued about moralityand whose avowed motive was a kind of hard-surfaced, carefullycalculated honor, for sale to the highest bidder. It was easy torecognize that Pamela was not only good but goody-goody. SoFielding, being thirty-five years of age and of uncertainincome--he had before he was thirty squandered his mother'sestate,--turned himself, two years after "Pamela" had appeared,to a new field and concocted the story known to the world ofletters as: "The Adventures of Joseph Andrews and His FriendAbraham Adams."

This Joseph purports to be the brother of Pamela (though thedenouement reveals him as more gently born) and is as virtuousin his character of serving-man as the sister herself; indeed,he outvirtues her. Fielding waggishly exhibits him in the fullexercise of a highly-starched decorum rebuffing the amatoryattempts of sundry ladies whose assault upon the citadel of hishonor is analogous to that of Mr. B.,--who naturally becomesSquire Booby in Fielding's hands--upon the long sufferingPamela. Thus, Lady Booby, in whose employ Joseph is footman,after an invitation to him to kiss her which has been gently butfirmly refused, bursts out with: "Can a boy, a stripling, havethe confidence to talk of his virtue?"

"Madam," says Joseph, "that boy is the brother of Pamela andwould be ashamed that the chastity of his family, which ispreserved in her, should be stained in him."

The chance for fun is palpable here. But something unexpectedhappened: what was begun as burlesque, almost horse-play, beganto pass from the key of shallow, lively satire, broadening anddeepening into a finer tone of truth. In a few chapters, by thetime the writer had got such an inimitable personage as ParsonAdams before the reader, it was seen that the book was to bemore than a jeu d'esprit: rather, the work of a master ofcharacterization. In short, Joseph Andrews started outostensibly to poke good-natured ridicule at sentimental Mr.Richardson: it ended by furnishing contemporary London and allsubsequent readers with a notable example of the novel ofmingled character and incident, entertaining alike for itslively episodes and its broadly genial delineation of types ofthe time. And so he soon had the town laughing with him at hisbroad comedy.

In every respect Fielding made a sharp contrast with Richardson.He was gentle-born, distinguished and fashionable in hisconnections: the son of younger sons, impecunious, generous, ofstrong often unregulated passions,--what the world calls a goodfellow, a man's man--albeit his affairs with the fair sex werenumerous. He knew high society when he choose to depict it: hiseducation compared with Richardson's was liberal and he basedhis style of fiction upon models which the past supplied,whereas Richardson had no models, blazed his own trail.Fielding's literary ancestry looks back to "Gil Blas" and "DonQuixote," and in English to "Robinson Crusoe." In other words,his type, however much he departs from it, is the picturesquestory of adventure. He announced, in fact, on his title-pagethat he wrote "in imitation of the manner of Cervantes."

Again, his was a genius for comedy, where Richardson, as we haveseen, was a psychologist. The cleansing effect of wholesomelaughter and an outdoor gust of hale west wind is offered byhim, and with it go the rude, coarse things to be found inNature who is nevertheless in her influence so salutary, sonecessary, in truth, to our intellectual and moral health. Herethen was a sort of fiction at many removes from the slow,analytic studies of Richardson: buoyant, objective, giving farmore play to action and incident, uniting in most agreeableproportions the twin interests of character and event. The verytitle of this first book is significant. We are invited to bepresent at a delineation of two men,--but these men aredisplayed in a series of adventures. Unquestionably, thepsychology is simpler, cruder, more elementary than that ofRichardson. Dr. Johnson, who much preferred the author of"Pamela" to the author of "Tom Jones" and said so in thehammer-and-tongs style for which he is famous, declared to Bozzythat "there is all the difference in the world between charactersof nature and characters of manners: and there is the differencebetween the characters of Fielding and those of Richardson.Characters of manners are very entertaining; but they are to beunderstood by a more superficial observer than characters ofnature, where a man must dive into the recesses of the humanheart."

And although we may share Boswell's feeling that Johnsonestimated the compositions of Richardson too highly and that hehad an unreasonable prejudice against Fielding--since he was aman of magnificent biases--yet we may grant that the critic-godmade a sound distinction here, that Fielding's method isinevitably more external and shallow than that of an analystproper like Richardson; no doubt to the great joy of many wearyfolk who go to novels for the rest and refreshment they give,rather than for their thought-evoking value.

The contrast between these novelists is maintained, too, in thematter of style: Fielding walks with the easy undress of agentleman: Richardson sits somewhat stiff and pragmatical,carefully arrayed in full-bottomed wig, and knee breeches,delivering a lecture from his garden chair. Fielding is a masterof that colloquial manner afterwards handled with such successby Thackeray: a manner "good alike for grave or gay," and makingthis early fiction-maker enjoyable. Quite apart from our relishof his vivid portrayals of life, we like his wayside chatting.For another difference: there is no moral motto or announcement:the lesson takes care of itself. What unity there is ofconstruction, is found in the fact that certain characters, moreor less related, are seen to walk centrally through thenarrative: there is little or no plot development in the modernsense and the method (the method of the type) is franklyepisodic.

In view of what the Novel was to become in the nineteenthcentury, Richardson's way was more modern, and did more to set aseal upon fiction than Fielding's: the Novel to-day is first ofall psychologic and serious. And the assertion is safe that allthe later development derives from these two kinds written bythe two greatest of the eighteenth century pioneers, Richardsonand Fielding: on the one hand, character study as a motive, onthe other the portrayal of personality surrounded by theexternal factors of life. The wise combination of the two, givesus that tangle of motive, act and circumstance which makes uphuman existence.

With regard to the morals of the story, a word may here be said,having all Fielding's fiction in mind. Of the suggestiveprurience of much modern novelism, whether French or French-derived,he, Fielding, is quite free: he deals with the sensualrelations with a frank acknowledgment of their physical basis.The truth is, the eighteenth century, whether in England orelsewhere, was on a lower plane in this respect than our owntime. Fielding, therefore, while he does no affront to essentialdecency, does offend our taste, our refinement, in dealing withthis aspect of life. We have in a true sense become morecivilized since 1750: the ape and tiger of Tennyson's poem havereceded somewhat in human nature during the last century and ahalf. The plea that since Fielding was a realist depictingsociety as it was in his day, his license is legitimate, whereasRichardson was giving a sort of sentimentalized stained-glasspicture of it not as it was but, in his opinion, should be,--isa specious one; it is well that in literature, faithfulreflector of the ideals of the race, the beast should be allowedto die (as Mr. Howells, himself a staunch realist, has said),simply because it is slowly dying in life itself. Fielding'snovels in unexpurgated form are not for household reading to-day:the fact may not be a reflection upon him, but it is surelyone to congratulate ourselves upon, since it testifies to socialevolution. However, for those whose experience of life issufficiently broad and tolerant, these novels hold no harm:there is a tonic quality to them.--Even bowdlerization is not tobe despised with such an author, when it makes him suitable forthe hands of those who otherwise might receive injury from thecontact. The critic-sneer at such an idea forgets that good artcomes out of sound morality as well as out of sound esthetics.It is pleasant to hear a critic of such standing as Brunetierein his "L'Art et Morale" speak with spiritual clarity upon thissubject, so often turned aside with the shrug of impatientscorn.

The episodic character of the story was to be the manner ofFielding in all his fiction. There are detached bits ofnarrative, stories within stories--witness that dealing with thehigh comedy figures of Leonora and Bellamine--and the novelistdoes not bother his head if only he can get his main charactersin motion,--on the road, in a tavern or kitchen brawl, astride ahorse for a cross-country dash after the hounds. CharlesDickens, whose models were of the eighteenth century, madesimilar use of the episode in his early work, as readers of"Pickwick" may see for themselves.

The first novel was received with acclaim and stirred up apretty literary quarrel, for Richardson and his admiring cliquewould have been more than human had they not taken umbrage at soobvious a satire. Recriminations were hot and many.

Mr. Andrew Lang should give us in a dialogue between deadauthors, a meeting in Hades between the two; it would be worthany climatic risk to be present and hear what was said; LadyMary, who may once more be put on the witness-stand, tells how,being in residence in Italy, and a box of light literature fromEngland having arrived at ten o'clock of the night, she couldnot but open it and "falling upon Fielding's works, was foolenough to sit up all night reading. I think "Joseph Andrews"better than his Foundling"--the reference being, of course, to"Tom Jones"; a judgment not jumping with that of posterity,which has declared the other to be his masterpiece; yet not anopinion to be despised, coming from one of the keenestintellects of the time. Lady Mary, whose cousin Fielding was,had a clear eye alike for his literary merits and personalfoibles and faults, but heartily liked him and acted as hisliterary mentor in his earlier days; his maiden play wasdedicated to her and her interest in him was more than passing.

The Bohemian barrister and literary hack who had made a love-matchhalf a dozen years before and now had a wife and severalchildren to care for, must have been vastly encouraged by thefavorable reception of his first essay into fiction; at last, hehad found the kind of literature congenial to his talents andlikely to secure suitable renown: his metier as an artist ofletters was discovered, as we might now choose to express it; hewould hardly have taken himself so seriously. It was naturalthat he should publish the next year a three volume collectionof his miscellany, which contained his second novel, "Mr.Jonathan Wild The Great," distinctly the least liked of his fourstories, because of its bitter irony, its almost savage tone,the gloom which surrounds the theme, a powerful, full-lengthportrayal of a famous thief-taker of the period, from his birthto his bad end on a Newgate gallows. Mr. Wild is a sort offoreglimpse of the Sherlock Holmes-Raffles of our own day.

Fielding's wife died this year and it may be that sorrow for herfatal illness was the subjective cause of the tone of thisgruesomely attractive piece of fiction; but there is some reasonfor believing it to be an earlier work than "Joseph Andrews"; itbelongs to a more primitive type of story-making, because of itssensational features: its dependence for interest upon the seamyside of aspects of life exhibited like magic lantern slides withlittle connection, but spectacular effects. The satire of thebook is directed at that immoral confusion between greatness andgoodness, the rascally Jonathan being pictured in grave mock-heroicsas in every way worthy--and the sardonic force at timesalmost suggests the pen of Dean Swift.

But such work was but a prelude to what was to follow. When theworld thinks of Henry Fielding it thinks of "Tom Jones," it isalmost as if he had written naught else. "The History of TomJones, A Foundling" appeared six years after "Jonathan Wild,"the intermediate time (aside from the novel itself) beingconsumed in editing journals and officiating as a Justice ofthe Peace: the last a role it is a little difficult, in thetheater phrase, to see him in. He was two and forty when thebook was published: but as he had been at work upon it for along while (he speaks of the thousands of hours he had beentoiling over it), it may be ascribed to that period of a man'sgrowth when he is passing intellectually from youth to earlymaturity; everything considered, perhaps the best productiveperiod. His health had already begun to break: and he was by nomeans free of the harassments of debt. Although successful inhis former attempt at fiction, novel writing was but an asidewith him, after all; he had not during the previous six yearsgiven regular time and attention to literary composition, as amodern story-maker would have done under the stimulus of likeencouragement. The eighteenth century audience, it must be bornein mind, was not large enough nor sufficiently eager for anattractive new form of literature, to justify a man of manytrades like Fielding in devoting his days steadily to thewriting of fiction. There is to the last an effect of the giftedamateur about him; Taine tells the anecdote of his refusal totrouble himself to change a scene in one of his plays, whichGarrick begged him to do: "Let them find it out," he said,referring to the audience. And when the scene was hissed, hesaid to the disconsolate player: "I did not: give them creditfor it: they have found it out, have they?" In other words, hewas knowing to his own poor art, content if only it escaped thepublic eye. This is some removes from the agonizing over aphrase of a Flaubert.

Like the preceding story, "Tom Jones" has its center of plot ina life history of the foundling who grows into a young manhoodthat is full of high spirits and escapades: likable always, evenif, judged by the straight-laced standards of Richardson, onemay not approve. Jones loves Sophia Western, daughter of atypical three-bottle, hunting squire: of course he prefers thelittle cad Blifil, with his money and position, where poor Tomhas neither: equally of course Sophia (whom the reader heartilylikes, in spite of her name) prefers the handsome Jones with hisblooming complexion and many amatory adventures. And, since weare in the simple-minded days of fiction when it was thebusiness of the sensible novelist to make us happy at the close,the low-born lover, assisted by Squire Allworthy, who is a deusex machina a trifle too good for human nature's daily food, getshis girl (in imitation of Joseph Andrews) and is shown to beclose kin to Allworthy--tra-la-la, tra-la-lee, it is allcharmingly simple and easy! The beginners of the English novelhad only a few little tricks in their box in the way of incidentand are for the most part innocent of plot in the Wilkie Collinssense of the word. The opinion of Coleridge that the "OedipusTyrannus," "The Alchemist" and "Tom Jones" are "the three mostperfect plots ever planned" is a curious comment upon hisconception of fiction, since few stories have been more plotlessthan Fielding's best book. The fact is, biographical fictionlike this is to be judged by itself, it has its own laws oftechnique.

The glory of "Tom Jones" is in its episodes, its crowded canvas,the unfailing verve and variety of its action: in the fine open-airatmosphere of the scenes, the sense of the stir of life theyconvey: most of all, in an indescribable manliness or humannesswhich bespeaks the true comic force--something of that samecomic view that one detects in Shakspere and Moliere andCervantes. It means an open-eyed acceptance of life, arealization of its seriousness yet with the will to take it witha smile: a large tolerancy which forbids the view conventionalor parochial or aristocratic--in brief, the view limited. Thereis this in the book, along with much psychology so superficialas to seem childish, and much interpretation that makes us feelthat the higher possibilities of men and women are not as yeteven dreamed of. In this novel, Fielding makes fuller use thanhe had before of the essay link: the chapters introductory tothe successive books,--and in them, a born essayist, as yourmaster of style is pretty sure to be, he discourses in thewisest and wittiest way on topics literary, philosophical orsocial, having naught to do with the story in hand, it may be,but highly welcome for its own sake. This manner of pausing bythe way for general talk about the world in terms of Me has beenused since by Thackeray, with delightful results: but has nowbecome old-fashioned, because we conceive it to be thenovelist's business to stick close to his story and not obtrudehis personality at all. Thackeray displeases a critic like Mr.James by his postscript harangues about himself as Showman,putting his puppets into the box and shutting up his booth:fiction is too serious a matter to be treated so lightly by itsmakers--to say nothing of the audience: it is more, much morethan mere fooling and show-business. But to go back to theeighteenth century is to realize that the novel is being newlyshaped, that neither novelist nor novel-reader is yet awake tothe higher conception of the genre. So we wax lenient and areglad enough to get these resting-places of chat and charm fromFielding: it may not be war, but it is nevertheless magnificent.

Fielding in this fiction is remarkable for his keen observationof every-day life and character, the average existence in townand country of mankind high and low: he is a truthful reporter,the verisimilitude of the picture is part of its attraction. Itis not too much to say that, pictorially, he is the first greatEnglish realist of the Novel. For broad comedy presentation heis unsurpassed: as well as for satiric gravity of comment andillustration. It may be questioned, however, whether when hestrives to depict the deeper phases of human relations he is somuch at home or anything like so happy. There is no morecritical test of a novelist than his handling of the lovepassion. Fielding essays in "Tom Jones" to show the love betweentwo very likable flesh-and-blood young folk: the many mishaps ofthe twain being but an embroidery upon the accepted fact thatthe course of true love never did run smooth. There is a certainscene which gives us an interview between Jones and Sophia,following on a stormy one between father and daughter, duringwhich the Squire has struck his child to the ground and left herthere with blood and tears streaming down her face. Herdisobedience in not accepting the addresses of the unspeakableBlifil is the cause of the somewhat drastic parental treatment.Jones has assured the Squire that he can make Sophia see theerror of her ways and has thus secured a moment with her. Hefinds her just risen from the ground, in the sorry plightalready described. Then follows this dialogue:

'O, my Sophia, what means this dreadful sight?'

She looked softly at him for a moment before she spoke, and then said:

'Mr. Jones, for Heaven's sake, how came you here? Leave me, I beseech you, this moment.'

'Do not,' says he, 'impose so harsh a command upon me. My heart bleeds faster than those lips. O Sophia, how easily could I drain my veins to preserve one drop of that dear blood.'

'I have too many obligations to you already,' answered she, 'for sure you meant them such.'

Here she looked at him tenderly almost a minute, and then bursting into an agony, cried:

'Oh, Mr. Jones, why did you save my life? My death would have been happier for us both.'

'Happy for us both!' cried he. 'Could racks or wheels kill me so painfully as Sophia's--I cannot bear the dreadful sound. Do I live but for her?'

Both his voice and look were full of irrepressible tenderness when he spoke these words; and at the same time he laid gently hold on her hand, which she did not withdraw from him; to say the truth, she hardly knew what she did or suffered. A few moments now passed in silence between these lovers, while his eyes were eagerly fixed on Sophia, and hers declining toward the ground; at last she recovered strength enough to desire him again to leave her, for that her certain ruin would be the consequence of their being found together; adding:

'Oh, Mr. Jones, you know not, you know not what hath passed this cruel afternoon.'

'Would to Heaven,' cried he, 'it was but a dream. Oh! Sophia, your father hath sent me to you, to be an advocate for my odious rival, to solicit you in his favor. I took any means to get access to you. O, speak to me, Sophia! Comfort my bleeding heart. Sure no one ever loved, ever doted, like me. Do not unkindly withhold this dear, this soft, this gentle hand--one moment perhaps tears you forever from me. Nothing less than this cruel occasion could, I believe, have ever conquered the respect and love with which you have inspired me.'

She stood a moment silent, and covered with confusion; then, lifting up her eyes gently towards him, she cried:

'What would Mr. Jones have me say?'

We would seem to have here a writer not quite in his nativeelement. He intends to interest us in a serious situation.Sophia is on the whole natural and winning, although one maystop to imagine what kind of an agony is that which allows of somathematical a division of time as is implied in the statementthat she looked at her lover--tenderly, too, forsooth!--"almosta minute." The mood of mathematics and the mood of emotion, eachexcellent in itself, do not go together in life as they do ineighteenth century fiction. But in the general impression shemakes, Sophia, let us concede, is sweet and realizable. ButJones, whom we have long before this scene come to know and befond of--Jones is here a prig, a bore, a dummy. Sir CharlesGrandison in all his woodenness is not arrayed like one ofthese. Consider the situation further: Sophia is in grief; shehas blood and tears on her face--what would any lover,--nay, anyrespectable young man do in the premises? Surely, stanch herwounds, dry her eyes, comfort her with a homely necessaryhandkerchief. But not so Jones: he is not a real man but amelodramatic lay-figure, playing to the gallery as he spoutsspeeches about the purely metaphoric bleeding of his heart,oblivious of the disfigurement of his sweetheart's visage fromreal blood. He insults her by addressing her in the thirdperson, mouths sentiments about his "odious rival" (a phrasewith a superb Bowery smack to it!) and in general so disportshimself as to make an effect upon the reader of completeunreality. This was no real scene to Fielding himself: why thenshould it be true: it has neither the accent nor the motion oflife. The novelist is being "literary," is not warm to his workat all. When we turn from this attempt to the best love scenesin modern hands, the difference is world-wide. And thisunreality--which violates the splendid credibility of the heroin dozens of other scenes in the book,--is all the worse comingfrom a writer who expressly announces his intention to destroythe prevalent conventional hero of fiction and set up somethingbetter in his place. Whereas Tom in the quoted scene is nothingif not conventional and drawn in the stock tradition of mawkishheroics. The plain truth is that with Fielding love is anappetite rather than a sentiment and he is only completely atease when painting its rollicking, coarse and passional aspects.

In its unanalytic method and loose construction this Novel,compared with Richardson, is a throw-back to a more primitivepattern, as we saw was the case with Fielding's first fiction.But in another important characteristic of the modern Novel itsurpasses anything that had earlier appeared: I refer to the wayit puts before the reader a great variety of human beings, sothat a sense of teeming existence is given, a genuine imitationof the spatial complexity of life, if not of its depths. It isthis effect, afterwards conveyed in fuller measure by Balzac, byDickens, by Victor Hugo and by Tolstoy, that gives us thefeeling that we are in the presence of a master of men, whateverhis limitations of period or personality.

How delightful are the subsidiary characters in the book! Onesuch is Partridge, the unsophisticated schoolmaster who, when heattends the theater with Tom and hears Garrick play "Hamlet,"thinks but poorly of the player because he only does whatanybody would do under the circumstances! All-worthy and Blifilone may object to, each in his kind, for being conventionallygood and bad, but in numerous male characters in less importantroles there is compensation: the gypsy episode, for example, isfull of raciness and relish. And what a gallery of women we getin the story: Mrs. Honour the maid, and Miss Western (who insome sort suggests Mrs. Nickleby), Mrs. Miller, Lady Bellaston,Mrs. Waters and other light-of-loves and dames of folly, whosedubious doings are carried off with such high good humor that weare inclined to overlook their misdeeds. There is a Chaucerianfreshness about it all: at times comes the wish that such talentwere used in a better cause. A suitable sub-title for the story,would be: Or Life in The Tavern, so large a share do Inns havein its unfolding. Fielding would have yielded hearty assent toDr. Johnson's dictum that a good inn stood for man's highestfelicity here below: he relished the wayside comforts of cup andbed and company which they afford.

"Tom Jones" quickly crossed the seas, was admired in foreignlands. I possess a manuscript letter of Heine's dated from Mainzin 1830, requesting a friend to send him this novel: the Germanpoet represents, in the request, the literary class which hasalways lauded Fielding's finest effort, while the wayfaring manwho picks it up, also finds it to his liking. Thus it securesand is safe in a double audience. Yet we must return to thethought that such a work is strictly less significant in theevolution of the modern Novel, because of its form, itsreversion to type, than the model established by a man likeRichardson, who is so much more restricted in gift.

Fielding's fourth and final story, "Amelia," was given to theworld two years later, and but three years before his prematuredeath at Lisbon at the age of forty-nine--worn out by irregularliving and the vicissitudes of a career which had been checkeredindeed. He did strenuous work as a Justice these last years andcarried on an efficacious campaign against criminals: but thelights were dimming, the play was nearly over. The pure gust oflife which runs rampant and riotous in the pages of "Tom Jones"is tempered in "Amelia" by a quieter, sadder tone and a morephilosophic vision. It is in this way a less characteristicwork, for it was of Fielding's nature to be instantly responsiveto good cheer and the creature comforts of life. When she gotthe news of his death, Lady Mary wrote of him: "His happyconstitution (even when he had, with great pains, halfdemolished it) made him forget everything when he was before avenison pastry or over a flask of champagne; and I am persuadedhe has known more happy moments than any prince upon earth. Hisnatural spirits gave him rapture with his cook-maid andcheerfulness in a garret." Here is a kit-kat showing the manindeed: all his fiction may be read in the light of it. The maininterest in "Amelia" is found in its autobiographical flavor,for the story, in describing the fortunes--or rathermisfortunes--of Captain Booth and his wife, drew, it is prettycertain, upon Fielding's own traits and to some extent upon theincidents of his earlier life. The scenes where the Captain setsup for a country gentleman with his horses and hounds andspeedily runs through his patrimony, is a transcript of his ownexperience: and Amelia herself is a sort of memorial to hiswell-beloved first wife (he had married for a second his honest,good-hearted kitchen-maid), who out of affection must haveendured so much in daily contact with such a character as thatof her charming husband. In the novel, Mrs. Booth alwaysforgives, even as the Captain ever goes wrong. There would besomething sad in such a clear-eyed comprehension of one's ownweakness, if we felt compelled to accept the theory that he washere drawing his own likeness; which must not be pushed too far,for the Captain is one thing Fielding never was--to wit, stupid.There is in the book much realism of scene and incident; but itslack of animal spirits has always militated against thepopularity of "Amelia"; in fact, it is accurate to say thatFielding's contemporary public, and the reading world eversince, has confined its interest in his work to "Joseph Andrews"and "Tom Jones."

The pathos of his ending, dying in Portugal whither he had goneon a vain quest for health, and his companionable qualitieswhether as man or author, can but make him a more winsome figureto us than proper little Mr. Richardson; and possibly thisfeeling has affected the comparative estimates of the twowriters. One responds readily to the sentiment of AustinDobson's fine poem on Fielding:

"Beneath the green Estrella trees,No artist merely, but a manWrought on our noblest island-plan,Sleeps with the alien Portuguese."

And in the same way we are sympathetic with Thackeray in thelecture on the English humorists: "Such a brave and gentleheart, such an intrepid and courageous spirit, I love torecognize in the manly, the English Harry Fielding." Imagine anylater critic calling Richardson "Sam!" It is inconceivable.

* * * * *

Such then were the two men who founded the English Novel, andsuch their work. Unlike in many respects, both as personalitiesand literary makers, they were, after all, alike in this: theyshowed the feasibility of making the life of contemporarysociety interesting in prose fiction. That was their greatcommon triumph and it remains the keynote of all the subsequentdevelopment in fiction. They accomplished this, each in his ownway: Richardson by sensibility often degenerating intosentimentality, and by analysis--the subjective method; Fieldingby satire and humor (often coarse, sometimes bitter) and thewide envisagement of action and scene--the method objective.Richardson exhibits a somewhat straitened propriety and a narrowdidactic tradesman's morality, with which we are now out ofsympathy. Fielding, on the contrary, with the abuse of his goodgift for tolerant painting of seamy human nature, gives wayoften to an indulgence of the lower instincts of mankind which,though faithfully reflecting his age, are none the lessunpleasant to modern taste. Both are men of genius, Fielding'sbeing the larger and more universal: nothing but genius couldhave done such original things as were achieved by the two.Nevertheless, set beside the great masters of fiction who wereto come, and who will be reviewed in these pages, they are seento have been excelled in art and at least equaled in gift andpower. So much we may properly claim for the marvelous growthand ultimate degree of perfection attained by the best novel-makersof the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. It remains nowto show what part was played in the eighteenth centurydevelopment by certain other novelists, who, while not of thesupreme importance of these two leaders, yet each and allcontributed to the shaping of the new fiction and did theirshare in leaving it at the century's end a perfected instrument,to be handled by a finished artist like Jane Austen. We musttake some cognizance, in special, of writers like Smollett andSterne and Goldsmith--potent names, evoking some of thepleasantest memories open to one who browses in the rich meadowlands of English literature.

CHAPTER IV

DEVELOPMENTS; SMOLLETT, STERNE AND OTHERS

The popularity of Richardson and Fielding showed itself in ahearty public welcome: and also in that sincerest form offlattery, imitation. Many authors began to write the newfiction. Where once a definite demand is recognized inliterature, the supply, more or less machine-made, is sure tofollow.

In the short quarter of a century between "Pamela" and "TheVicar of Wakefield," the Novel got its growth, passed out ofleading strings into what may fairly be called independence andmaturity: and by the time Goldsmith's charming little classicwas written, the shelves were comfortably filled with novelsrecent or current, giving contemporary literature quite the airso familiar to-day. Only a little later, we find the Gentleman'sMagazine, a trustworthy reporter of such matters, speaking of"this novel-writing age." The words were written in 1773, ageneration after Richardson had begun the form. Still morestriking testimony, so far back as 1755, when Richardson'smaiden story was but a dozen years old, a writer in "TheConnoisseur" is facetiously proposing to establish a factory forthe fashioning of novels, with one, a master workman, to furnishplots and subordinates to fill in the details--an anticipationof the famous literary menage of Dumas pere.

Although there was, under these conditions, inevitable imitationof the new model, there was a deeper reason for the rapiddevelopment. The time was ripe for this kind of fiction: it wasin the air, as we have already tried to suggest. Hence, otherfiction-makers began to experiment with the form, this beingespecially true of Smollett. Out of many novelists, feeble ortruly called, a few of the most important must be mentioned.

I

The Scotch-born Tobias Smollett published his first fiction,"Roderick Random," eight years after "Pamela" had appeared, andthe year before "Tom Jones"; it was exactly contemporaneous with"Clarissa Harlowe," A strict contemporary, then, with Richardsonand Fielding, he was also the ablest novelist aside from them, aman whose work was most influential in the later development. Itis not unusual to dismiss him in a sentence as a coarserFielding. The characterization hits nearer the bull's eye thanis the rule with such sayings, and more vulgar than the greaterwriter he certainly is, brutal where Fielding is vigorous: andhe exhibits and exaggerates the latter's tendencies to thepicaresque, the burlesque and the episodic. His fiction is ofthe elder school in its loose fiber, its external method ofdealing with incident and character. There is little or nothingin Smollett of the firm-knit texture and subjective analysis ofthe moderns. Thus the resemblances are superficial, thedifferences deeper-going and palpable. Smollett is oftenviolent, Fielding never: there is an impression ofcosmopolitanism in the former--a wider survey of life, if onlyon the surface, is given in his books. By birth, Smollett was ofthe gentry; but by the time he was twenty he had seen service asSurgeon's Mate in the British navy, and his after career as ToryEditor, at times in prison, literary man and traveler whovisited many lands and finally, like Fielding, died abroad inItaly, was checkered enough to give him material and to sparefor the changeful bustle, so rife with action and excitement, ofhis four principal stories. Like the American Cooper, he drewupon his own experiences for his picture of the navy; and like alater American, Dr. Holmes, was a physician who could speak bythe card of that side of life.

Far more closely than Fielding he followed the "Gil Blas" model,depending for interest primarily upon adventures by the way,moving accidents by flood and field. He declares, in fact, hisintention to use Le Sage as a literary father and he translated"Gil Blas." In striking contrast, too, with Fielding is theinterpretation of life one gets from his books; with the authorof "Tom Jones" we feel, what we do in greater degree withShakespeare and Balzac, that the personality of the fiction-makeris healthily merged in his characters, in the picture oflife. But in the case of Dr. Smollett, there is a stronglyindividual satiric bias: less of that largeness which sees theworld from an unimplicated coign of vantage, whence the open-eyed,wise-minded spectator finds it a comedy breeding laughterunder thoughtful brows. We seem to be getting not so much scenesof life as an author's setting of the scene for his own privatereasons. Such is at least the occasional effect of Smollett.Also is there more of bitterness, of savagery in him: and whereFielding was broad and racily frank in his handling of delicatethemes, this fellow is indecent with a kind of hardness andbrazenness which are amazing. The difference between plain-speakingand unclean speaking could hardly be betterillustrated. It should be added, in justice, that even Smollettis rarely impure with the alluring saliency of certain modernfiction.

In the first story, "The Adventures of Roderick Random" (thecumbrous full titles of earlier fiction are for apparent reasonsfrequently curtailed in the present treatment), published whenthe author was twenty-seven, he avails himself of a residence ofsome years in Jamaica to depict life in that quarter of theworld at a time when the local color had the charm of novelty.The story is often credited with being autobiographic, as anovelist's first book is likely to be; since, by popular belief,there is one story in all of us, namely, our own. Itsdescription of the hero's hard knocks does, indeed, suggest thefate of a man so stormily quarrelsome throughout his days: forthis red-headed Scot, this "hack of genius," as Henleypicturesquely calls him, was naturally a fighting man and,whether as man or author, attacks or repels sharply: there isnothing uncertain in the effect he makes. His loud vigor is aspronounced as that of a later Scot like Carlyle; yet he statedlong afterward that the likeness between himself and Roderickwas slight and superficial. The fact that the tale is written inthe first person also helps the autobiographic theory: thatmethod of story-making always lends a certain credence to thenarrative. The scenes shift from western Scotland to the streetsof London, thence to the West Indies: and the interest (theremark applies to all Smollett's work) lies in just threethings--adventure, diversity of character, and the realisticpicture of contemporary life--especially that of the navy on aday when, if Smollett is within hailing distance of the facts,it was terribly corrupt. Too much credit can hardly be given himfor first using, so effectively too, the professional sea-lifeof his country: a motive so richly productive since throughMarryat down to Dana, Herman Melville, Clark Russell and manyother favorite writers, both British and American. In Smollett'shands, it is a strange muddle of religion, farce and smut, butset forth with a vivid particularity and a gusto f high spirits